


how to be a bad hyung

by Lirazel



Category: Infinite (Band), K-POP RPF, K-pop, Korean Pop, Kpop-Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hoya stopped feeling guilty about this long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to be a bad hyung

Hoya stopped feeling guilty about this long ago. It’s past three in the morning, and any other good hyung would want his dongsaeng to be sleeping soundly, would never dream of waking him up if the dorm wasn’t on fire or something else equally life-or-death. But here’s Hoya, stripping down to his boxers in yanking movements that are all the tension calcifying his body will allow and pulling up the duvet enough that he can slip underneath, settling into the warmth of the bed. 

“Hyung?” 

Sungjong’s voice is always half an octave lower during times like this, thick with sleep, and the way he says the word is never really a question. Still, Hoya always answers the same way.

“Yeah, it’s me, Sungjongie.”

Sungjong reaches out to drape a lazy arm over Hoya’s shoulder and Hoya scoots in closer till Sungjong’s bony knees bump into his, till he can feel the soft cotton of Sungjong’s t-shirt against his bare chest, till Sungjong’s arm can tighten around his neck. With each touch, it feels like a little bit of the tension is being siphoned out of him and into Sungjong, where Sungjong’s fierceness and fearlessness will crush it into nothing. Hoya is sure that without Sungjong, he’s the one who would have been crushed to nothingness by the unrelenting weight of schedules and practice and more schedules.

“Hyung, you stink. You didn’t even take a shower, did you?” But Sungjong’s nose is still bumping against Hoya’s jaw like he doesn’t even mind, like he maybe even likes the smell. Hoya’s felt like his fingers were tied into knots of pressure all day, but now they’re being picked loose by the sound of Sungjong’s voice.

A good hyung would never have climbed into bed with his dongsaeng while still coated in stale perspiration, especially not while knowing just how conscientious Sungjong always is about going to bed clean. There’s a sharp scent of moisturizer layered over the warm smell of Sungjong’s skin, and Hoya slides his fingers into the silk of Sungjong’s hair, knowing that if he lifted his nose to it, he’d be able to smell the apple of his shampoo. That seems like too much effort, though, so he just slides his other arm under Sungjong’s body to wrap it close around his waist and doesn’t even feel guilty about soiling Sungjong’s clean sheets, his clean pajamas, his clean skin. 

“I missed you, Sungjong,” he says in way of answer, and he’s pretty sure Sungjong rolls his eyes in response, but it’s too dark to see and it doesn’t really matter anyway, not when one of Sungjong’s legs has made its way between his, not when Sungjong’s fingers are scratching along the line of Hoya’s shoulders and a little way down his spine, every graze of his nails chipping away at Hoya’s stress.

“Okay, hyung,” Sungjong says, and then Hoya feels lips pressing against his own and he lets out a long, long sigh.

These kisses, in the dark in Sungjong’s bed at ungodly hours of the night, are always lethargic and open-mouthed, all tongue and no finesse, like their mouths are trying to meld together. A good hyung wouldn’t be kissing his dongsaeng anyway, but Hoya doesn’t know how to stop this—not that he really wants to. Usually every single thing about Sungjong excites him in every possible way, but not these late-night kisses tangled between limbs and the covers of Sungjong’s bed. These are relaxing and relieving, like every motion of Sungjong’s mouth takes a bite out of Hoya’s stress and weariness, every swipe of his tongue licks the tension away. Before he started climbing into Sungjong’s bed every night when he gets home (when he _gets_ to come home, which isn’t every night at all)—back when he was still a good hyung—he had never been able to relax enough to sleep well, his slumber coming in fits and starts that left him feeling no more rested in the morning. But now there’s this: Sungjong’s hands brushing away the pressure constricting his shoulders in iron bands, Sungjong’s skin melting the rigidity of his own, Sungjong’s scent clearing the matted cotton out of his mind, Sungjong’s mouth sucking all the stiffness right out of his body. Hoya knows he’s pathetic when it comes to Sungjong, but he doesn’t think it’s just his imagination that convinces him that Sungjong makes him feel more rested than sleep itself. Probably a good hyung would feel guilty about that, but Hoya is too tired to care.

They aren’t even breathing hard when Sungjong finally pulls back—these aren’t those kind of kisses and Hoya’s pretty sure his heart rate actually goes _down_ while they last—and Hoya feels like he could melt right into liquid, be absorbed by the pores in Sungjong’s flawless skin, swim in Sungjong’s bloodstream and be pumped through his veins. It would be such a _relief_.

“Okay, hyung,” Sungjong says again, and then he pulls away from Hoya enough that he can turn onto his back, and then he tugs Hoya over onto him—Hoya lets himself be tugged—and Hoya rests his head in the curve of Sungjong’s shoulder, his cheekbone against Sungjong’s collarbone, his lips against Sungjong’s neck. It feels like Sungjong’s the one comforting him, the one taking care of him, and a good hyung wouldn’t let it be that way, would make sure he was the one doing the comforting. But Sungjong keeps giving and giving and Hoya loves him too much, needs him too much, not to take anything he’ll offer.

“Now let me go to sleep, hyung,” Sungjong says. 

That, at least, Hoya can do.


End file.
